Under Babylon
by Fifth
Summary: SUPER AU. Broke and recently discharged, a former soldier dives into the Gotham underworld with the only skill he has: a killer aim. But as he rubs shoulders with the city's worst criminals and persistent vigilantes, he soon discovers that his new life comes with a heavy cost. A Deadshot reboot/origins tale set in a modern, minimalist Gotham.


_**U**nder **B**abylon_

By Fifth

Disclaimer: Deadshot and any other characters of Batman lore do not belong to me. My various references to pop culture also don't belong to me. I do, however, claim credit for my original characters.

* * *

RATED HARD T for violence, strong language, sexuality, and unethical thematic elements. You've been warned :)

Strongly subject to change.

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**INTRODUCTORY NOTE - READ BEFORE READING:**

**Hey guys. This is a story I'd been thinking about writing for some time. I always wondered what Gotham looked like through the eyes of criminals, and more specifically, those who'd get dragged into that lifestyle. I wanted to put a modern, post-recessionary spin on the atmosphere of Gotham, portraying a minimalist, but strange world.**

**This is the rise of an OC Deadshot, though the original character (Floyd Lawton) also plays a vital role in the story. He comes up in the prime of Batman's career, and experiencing Gotham through his fresh perspective. I wanted to incorporate an "air of untouchability" with certain figures in Gotham; when we meet some of the big villains, it will be like meeting Gods.**

**Think of this as a man's desperate journey into criminality to make money beyond his wildest dreams. But every journey comes with a price. And, in Gotham, the price will almost always be everything.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Arrival**

* * *

"_Entire lives are defined by that question, boy."_

_- Floyd Lawton_

* * *

He was breathless.

"Wait, what're you going to do, kill him?" Kieran asked.

Don fixed the bottle silencer and positioned the .22 rifle. It wasn't a large gun at all, but at this range, any man should be afraid. A bullet was a bullet, and the stinger ammunition loaded into the chamber would rip a hole several inches wide. He thought about that for a moment, not realizing that he was already in the early stages of hesitation. When the mind starts moving, then it becomes more difficult to slow its momentum. Hesitation is more of a reaction, and not fear, like most would imagine. It's a sign of inexperience.

The guy's name was Peter. He was young, Italian, possibly in his mid-to-late 20s, and in the process of snorting the special cocaine that Kieran had acquired just yesterday. Don didn't care, really, but the same guy was hanging out at the high school earlier, too, doing God-knows-what. Selling to children, hitting on the girls—it could have been anything. Already, his mind had drawn several conclusions as to why this punk should die, each of these conclusions having no concrete support whatsoever. They were pure conjecture, and he knew it, but in his mind he was convinced. Funny how intelligent we could be when we believed something was true.

He and Kieran were sitting beside some bushes in a dark neighborhood. Thankfully, this was still the suburbs, so there were few lights around to give away their position—not like anyone would respond fast enough to catch them anyway. At the corner of the block was a streetlight that casted a soft orange pool, giving any late walkers a convenient point of reference as to where they were going. But then again, this was the suburbs. No one was really out at 2 AM going for a walk, save for the exasperated husband who could only think of his lasting imprisonment in this American wasteland—men like his father.

It was a perfect night for something like this.

Looking through the scope was a different experience than he previously thought. All this time, he believed that he was ready to bring the crosshairs hovering over a human head, but in his fantasies he didn't imagine the crystal clear expressions on Peter's face. He couldn't foresee the furrowing of the brows, the dilated pupils, the stretched grins. The exercise that Don had imagined hundreds of times before this was useless. It didn't prepare him to pull the trigger.

"Hey, look man. It's just a brick. Who cares? Raul's got money. He's good for it. Trust," Kieran assured him.

Don didn't look away. Instead he remembered what Floyd had taught him. Slow the breath. Breathe into the gut, not the chest. Turn off the mind and use pure instinct.

"Dude. Do you know what's going to happen if you do this?"

His friend's voice drowned out to the sound of his breath, which moved in and out like ocean waves. The ethereal chill of focus washed over him and time stood still. He moved his hand to the trigger as the front door opened, exposing the man who would receive a pointy, steel-tipped fate.

He had taken a life on one occasion. Hopefully, this one was also necessary.

* * *

**Greenglades International Airport – A couple days earlier**

Don didn't have to come home in uniform this time since he'd been in the woods all summer. Instead, he had ditched his camouflage backpack for a regular hiker's backpack and dressed casually, which would be an unusual change for Aunt Leslie. The plane was in the process of docking, and the people around didn't seem too eager to stay any longer. He looked around and saw a variety of faces, some exhausted, some tired—you could almost determine exactly which parts of Gotham they'd be going. People often preferred Greenglades to Gotham International (formerly Archie Goodwin) because it was far less busy, and the extra 20-30 minute drive was beyond a fair trade for the endless complications and poor service.

However, he wasn't going to Gotham City. He was staying inland, where he'd been raised: Mellowdew Heights, a suburb found smack dab in the heart of Iroquois County, which was just east of the city. Iroquois County was a place with history, which, consequentially, meant that it was a schizophrenic division of class lines. Staying a touch north was like travelling through Silicon Valley, with lots of tech startups, rich neighborhoods, and good schools, but crossing downtown led to the south side, home to some the poorest neighborhoods outside of the Bowery.

"Are you military?" she asked.

He turned his head and faced the stewardess, an older-looking woman with earnest eyes.

"209th Bravo. Army," he replied. "How'd you know?"

She happily pointed down to his wrist. The watch he wore was something he specifically picked up for those long treks along the Afghan hills while on patrol. He was a little embarrassed to let her see it since it wasn't very dirty or worn. One, he'd taken care of his things, and two, he never saw much action out there. By the time he was sent to the Middle East, they were already bringing most of the troops back. The need for special operations soldiers was much greater than regular infantry, and secretly he wished he had signed up for 11x, which was the designation for the Special Forces. It would've made him useful, at least.

He wasn't really ready to come home. The plane stopped moving.

"My son," the stewardess said. "God bless you."

Don gave her a smile.

"I'm sure he's coming home right this moment. Where's he stationed?"

The stewardess's smile faltered and her eyes drifted aside. "He was killed in action."

Ouch. Wrong question.

"I'm sorry."

"It's been a couple years now. And each time I see one of you come home, it makes me happier that fewer others have to endure what I went through," she said.

The people started getting off the plane one by one, fetching their bags from above and moving in single file.

"I'm sorry again," he said. "But you're wrong."

They scooted out towards the aisle.

"What do you mean?"

Don reached for his other bag and brought it down.

"I'm here because my father's dead."

He followed the others out the plane and said his goodbyes to faces that he'd never see again. And to think, it was common to summon the energy to put on a smile and pretend that they all knew each other somehow and owed each other a gesture of kindness. It was always like that. Frame by frame, moment by moment, like passing ships in the night. Don admitted that his life wasn't a wealth of experiences that expanded his depth; even as a soldier, he found himself treated like a child. The world around him was a machination of institutions that dulled the heart and flexed the mind.

And maybe, a vital part of it was his unwillingness to search for the other things.

It had been awhile since he returned to Gotham, and he was certain that it hadn't changed much at all. He walked down the terminal and adjusted the brim of his ball cap, weary of the pseudo-futuristic renovations that had been installed since he was last here. The tall, glass openings above intensified the sunlight coming down, and if there were no air conditioning, the temperature would surely cook whatever's inside the building. On top of that, he was recently in Canada and the slightly higher temperature standard was somewhat of an abrupt change.

When he got down to the end and got on the escalator, he was already scanning past the doors for a cab waiting on the sidewalk. Usually, his father would pick him up and they'd have a quiet ride home, hardly speaking because they knew that they were both too cowardly to talk about anything of real importance. Instead, their discussions were limited to inconsequential banter, somewhere along the lines of how his experience in the military had been, and likely concluding with his father's opinion of the Knights this season—his father would probably make a few jabs about their hitting, though the pitching was far better than last season.

His eyes watered just slightly. Don confessed that he longed to have another mundane conversation with his father. The reality of his father's absence was becoming more apparent as he reentered Gotham.

Sometimes, men didn't have to explain anything to one another. They simply understood that the earth weighed down them, and perhaps they could share some silence. But that silence was seldom satisfying.

He reached the bottom of the escalator, and just as he was walking past a group of people waiting, a voice called out to him.

"Donald!"

He looked in the direction of the voice and noticed that his aunt was already waiting for him, waving at him from a short distance away. Don walked over to his Aunt Leslie and greeted her with an embrace. Leslie Choi was his mother's sister, and shared her tough exterior, but unconditional sense of care for family. She was the first one, unsurprisingly, to take care of his brother Vincent after his father died. They occasionally kept contact over the years after his mother died in a skiing accident when he was seventeen. It was one of the more surprising efforts that his father had made.

"Aunt Les," he greeted.

"It's good having you back."

"You didn't have to drive all the way out here…"

She brushed off his comment. "Nonsense. You've just been discharged. No need to waste your money on these sort of things."

Don was suddenly reintroduced to his mother's side of the family, which was a nonstop one-upmanship of kindness. He only regretted not learning any second languages, though it was difficult, considering his father was half-Japanese, half-Brazilian. His mother and aunt were a mix of Chinese and Dutch. This ridiculous background most likely contributed to his uncanny athleticism—he was considered an interracial genetic freak in high school, though he was never allowed to play any hard contact sports, like football. Instead, his father opted for him to learn Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Muay Thai, which wasn't particularly any safer by any means. Nonetheless, his aunt's gesture made him feel right at home.

"Where's Victor? School?"

She shook her head. "With some friends, working on some sort of project. He should be home by the time we get back."

After that moment, Don was thinking about how long he would be able to stay in their household. He was a grown man, after all, and didn't want to become another mouth to feed. He found himself musing on this as they exited the building and headed for the parking lot.

* * *

**Iroquois Community College – Parking Lot**

"I heard Raul was at your house the other day. Thought that fool fell off," Led brought up in mid-puff before passing the weakly rolled cannabis blunt to Kieran.

They were hanging out in the parking lot in-between classes, and since security wasn't too heavy today, they decided to smoke right there. It was a perk that came with living in the suburbs. In the city, they'd have to head home or to some alley where they could get robbed.

"Yeah, he did," Kieran said, pinching it with his finger and thumb. He took a slow drag, letting the unfiltered smoke dive into his lungs, allowing the contents to stick to his throat. Then, he exhaled. "But dude has info on a new plug, though."

Larry Pinchet—or Led, as Kieran called him—was an old acquaintance from high school who never quite hung around, but in his years of working, pushing, and education post-high school, Kieran had learned to make friends with people he never knew personally. It was weird how people just happened to gravitate to each other when their social situations changed, like some invisible force guiding them along. Then again, Kieran wasn't as close to Led as some of his other friends. Maybe people were simply in touch with their loneliness, and out of that, their subconscious minds opened them to other possibilities, making them compatible with other people. Maybe they weren't unique at all.

Ah shit. He was already getting high.

"New plug? Are you serious?"

Kieran took another hit and passed it back to Led. "Yeah. Heard the guy's plug has, like, at least a brick of white he's trying to get out there. Might pick up an O this weekend."

"Dawg, but what about last time?"

"What _about_ last time?"

He was held at gunpoint last time he took a trip with Raul to Crime Alley. They had planned to deliver an ounce to a close friend and pick up some hookers in the East End afterwards, only to be robbed by some meth-heads with smiles painted on their faces. It was an unnerving experience, but thankfully they got out of it alive. Anyone who worked under the Joker was unpredictable, and he was certain that if one of the Joker's lieutenants had caught him, they'd have been flayed alive and tossed into the sewers.

"Thought you said you were done with that shit," Led said.

"Yeah, I know. But that money, though."

They shared a brief laughter before Kieran thought about it some more.

"I don't know if I should be telling you this," he said. "But fuck it. You heard of that special shit going around lately? Started getting huge in Bristol. Remember that party we went to where that dude took a shit on the floor?"

Led snickered. "Yeah."

"Did you do any lines at that party?"

"No. I blacked out."

Kieran rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I _did_. It was…"

He tried to gesture just how potent the coke at that party was. He couldn't find the words to illustrate his point. If only he'd passed English.

"Damn, man. It was the best coke I've ever done. Bar none. Nothing even comes close," he said. "Some dude at the party called it Black Coke. Gunpowder."

Kieran received the blunt-turned-roach from Led and stomped it out.

"Because it blows up in your nose?"

"Yeah. Shit's like Lucky Charms. There are rumors around as to who cuts it."

Led leaned back on his car. "I'll guess. It's from Iceberg."

"Nah. Penguin ain't been large in the game for awhile," Kieran said, shaking his head. "His shit doesn't even touch this. This stuff, it's as close to the pure Colombiano as it gets. Heard it might even be better."

"Not from the city, must be from out of town. Probably the riverside docks, but I don't think the union is capable of cutting anything without everyone in a 20 mile radius finding out."

At this point, Kieran wasn't sure if he wanted to utter the name. The fact was that the person who dealt this coke might not even exist. He was just about as elusive as one of the more infamous figures in Gotham; a masked man who foils mob dealings.

"La Mascara Negra," was all he uttered.

Led was confused. "Huh? Black makeup?"

"_Black Mask_."

"Bitch, come on," Led scoffed. "You been hanging around them Latinos too much. The lines you snorted probably had chili powder in it."

Kieran didn't want to argue. "No, it's different. Raul's connect has this shit. And I'm gonna start dealing again."

"How much?"

"Probably $800 an ounce, cut."

"Seriously? That's a ripoff. I can pick you up a pure one for seven."

"Yeah, but it's not Black. I'm not going to try to convince you about this. I'll let the product speak for itself when you get a hit," Kieran said. "I'm telling you. This is going to change things. This shit is gonna be like Google. But for drugs."

Students began entering the parking lot after finishing class, along with women dressed in tight workout clothes carrying rubber mats. They decided to wrap up the narcotics conversation and Kieran noticed one of his friends coming out from the main building. He was a skinny, frail-looking kid, but dressed in expensive clothing, though he had a generic sense of style. Led once classified him as the ultimate hipster mobster, but Kieran new better than to brand him something he wasn't.

Led nodded his head. "Yo, look. It's Allie."

Alberto Falcone, though dressed fashionably, didn't really know what kind of man he was. He was a bright kid, but wholly insecure and lacked the grounding confidence to do what others in his family did. So instead of staying in the penthouse in downtown and fucking an entire variety of desperate, attractive girls, he was shoved out here to live a comfortable, normal life and pursue a decent education. It was a stark contrast to his brother and sister, who were both dominant and completely accepting of their mob lives.

"What's up, guys?"

"Hey, hey," Kieran said as the guy approached them, his fancy backpack slung over his shoulder.

Al waved a hand in front of his face, which instantly assumed a guise of recognition.

"You guys are massive stoners."

Led sniffed his sweater. "You can tell?"

"It takes one to know one," Al replied with a grin.

Kieran laughed. "What's good, man?"

"Ah, nothing much. Shit, I guess," Al said. He was in a good mood. "Can't wait to transfer soon."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Kieran replied. "Where're you trying to go?"

"If anything, Gotham State. But I really want to go west."

"Alright, Cali. I lived there for awhile before coming here," he said. "I really wish I'd stayed."

Alberto chuckled. "Yeah, I used to go there every summer to visit my uncle Robert. I don't really want to be here as much. You know, with the fam, and all."

Kieran remembered that Al's father, Don Carmine Falcone, dying of heart complications a couple years back. Since then, the Falcone family hasn't been the same. They've been up to a lot of overseas operations as of late because of their fallen status as a mob family. Nonetheless, they were still absurdly rich, and could enjoy the spoils of the unreachable 1% that happened to run this country. But from where Kieran was standing, no one really ran anything. It made sense that this kid just wanted to get away from it all.

"Anywhere but here," he commented. "Story of my life."

"Church," Led replied.

They couldn't help but keep eyes on the women dressed in workout clothes, some heading to their cars, some staying behind to chat.

"It's fall. Where the hell were all these ladies in the summer?" he asked.

Led was particularly interested. "_Damn_. I should sign up for whatever they're doing."

There were men in the class, too.

"I think those guys might be gay," Al replied with slight implications.

Led blew it off. "Blessing in disguise. It's even better if girls think you're going the other way—puts down their bitch shield, you feel?"

Kieran noticed a brunette, almost raven-haired woman heading to her car with a mat in hand. She was strikingly fit, more than the others, and her most noticeable feature was her backside. Not necessarily the shape of her ass, but the way the sinews in her back were exposed due to her exercise outfit, as well as the slim, but shapely legs; it made entire back look like a beautiful sculpture. When she turned to the side to head to her car, he thought he recognized her. Both Led and Al noticed, too.

"I feel like I've seen her before," he said.

"Yeah, didn't she go to high school with us?" Led asked.

Al went to high school in the city, so he was unable to contribute.

She entered her car, a black Infiniti sedan, and backed out. When she drove past them, moving towards the exit, she kept a fixed glance at them. Kieran managed to catch her subtle blue eyes through the reflection of her windshield, which were locked on his own. Then, the car passed. There was a feeling of recognition, and surprise. She was definitely from somewhere, if he didn't necessarily know where. Most likely a former classmate. But why did he notice her now? He'd been in community college for the better part of three years now, taking classes here and there to satisfy the parents, and hadn't seen her once. It was the beginning of a new semester and she must have registered recently.

"She looked at you. You know what that means," Led told him.

"Yeah, whatever," Kieran said with a small grin.

After a short, contemplative moment, Al decided to change the subject.

"Don't you guys have class?"

He shrugged. "I think I'm too high for that. Probably going to somewhere and eat. Wanna come with?"

* * *

_**The woods, Canada – Last winter**_

"Don't forget that the trigger pressure is slightly higher in cold temperatures," the old man said, stroking his goatee.

The bullet had sailed several feet to the side of the target. Don watched the replay of the binoculars while huddled under the trees.

"But I was damn close," Don said. "I was off by a couple degrees."

"Who gives a fuck if you were close or not?" Floyd told him. "If you want to take this seriously, you have to understand that this is a game of inches. A game of degrees. Try it again. Read the sensor correctly."

Don tightened the grip on his rifle with rising frustration, his lips pursing from the cold. "There's no way I'll ever be shooting in conditions like this."

"Now you're making rationalizations. Excuses," his teacher said. "It's completely your fault. Your responsibility. There is a task, and you complete that task, no matter what you feel. Happy or sad. Hell or high water. The task doesn't care what you think, or what you say."

"But you said that if I could master this, I could do whatever I wanted."

Floyd Lawton scoffed and backed away from the spot they were laying down on, sitting up on his knees. They were positioned in some cover on the tree line, practicing on a target in the tundra and scaring all animals that were close by. Any nearby hunter would most likely be angry at them for shooing all the deer away.

"Get up."

Don let go of his grip on the cheap rifle, which was somewhat sticky due to frost buildup, and sat on his knees, as well. Floyd patted him on the shoulders. It had been more than a few years since he visited the old man, and his shooting was utterly horrific, to say the least. The last time he saw him was just before entering the Army, which proved to be a failure, anyhow, since he didn't even get accepted into sniper school.

"I'm not your father, so I'm not going to be strict with you," the man said. "I can only tell you what I believe what is, and what isn't. You're still young, so you have to figure out where the pieces go, and sometimes, those pieces will contradict each other."

He bit his cold lip and tried to make sense of what his mentor was saying.

"You have to walk through the world understanding that you know nothing. Stop trying to figure out everything before the fact. The horse goes before the cart," Floyd continued. "Do first, then learn next. You kids. Forgot how the world works. Or was never taught."

"But what if I'm wrong?"

Floyd raised an eyebrow. "Entire lives are defined by that question, boy. If everyone understood how pointless it was to ask that question, then no one would be extraordinary. This takes mastery, and mastery takes everything. One missed shot at a time."

His teacher leaned back down on his stomach, gesturing to the target in front of him.

"Now, again. Shoot until you can't miss. That's the secret."

Don grumbled and positioned himself alongside the rifle again. He looked through the frosty scope, several hundred yards down, and pulled his crosshairs towards the soda can that he had been unable to hit all winter.

* * *

**Mellowdew Heights**

"This is where Vincent goes to school," Aunt Leslie told him as they drove past. "It's has great standing. Top five in all of Gotham."

Don had a working understanding of the neighborhood, which was only one over from where he'd lived previously. There were kids walking along the sidewalk, next to the football field, where the team was practicing. Street cleaners were blowing away some of the browning leaves. This was a safe neighborhood, safer than where he'd lived with his father, and the best possible place for his brother, who was entering his sophomore year in high school. They were a decent time frame apart. His brother was turning 16 next year and Don was 25, so the situation he was in now was somewhat cruel since he was at an age that was capable of taking care of minors. Then again, people have gone through worse. He always had to remind himself of that.

"Did you…want to talk about something else?" she suddenly asked, noting his silence.

"Oh. Sorry," he said. "Just have a lot on my mind."

"You can talk to me about it, Don. I'm here to listen."

"How was the funeral?" he found himself asking.

She shrugged. "It was fine. Small. Vincent didn't cry. Said he wanted to be tough, and that this was just a part of life."

"Smartass."

"People grieve in their own way. I gave him some space."

"That space easily turns into isolation," he said. "My parents never were the type to wonder how we felt about things. I'm not surprised he said that."

Leslie looked at him as they came to a red light. "How are you? Where've you been?"

"Just abroad," he said. "Had to see some of the world, and some old friends."

The light turned green and they drove forward.

"I wish I had come back in time."

"It's okay."

Don shook his head. "It's not. It was a terrible thing to do. I should have answered back."

Aunt Leslie had called him in the winter, when he was in Canada, asking that he come back home because his father was sick. He never returned her call.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This whole thing…it's my responsibility now."

"Don't be silly. I'll be here to help as long as I can."

He nodded. "Thanks. I'll be applying for jobs by the end of the week, and once I have enough money, I'll get out of your hair."

Then, he remembered that she was taking care of his brother.

"I'll find a way to support Vincent, too. I don't want him to be a burden for you and Calvin," he added.

"That's nice and all, dear, but I think you should take things one step at a time. There's no pressure. Calvin and I make more than enough to be able to help him out until college. We're flying pretty smooth right now, so it's no big deal."

But Don knew that Vincent would have to take out loans for college, and at the rate students were taking out loans, he wasn't sure that it was the smartest choice. He didn't want to voice these concerns to Leslie, because those were ridiculous standards to hold, especially when he had no capability to support himself at the same time.

They made a right turn and strolled past some trees towards her house, the sunlight cascading through the dark leaves. Don had forgotten exactly which house was hers, but there was a sense of uneasiness as she pulled up to her home. He saw a dark blue sedan parked in front, and guessed that this wasn't typical.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath.

Leslie parked inside the driveway and turned off the engine. Her home was an earthly color, with lots of browns, and almost entirely shaded by the trees at this time of day. Don imagined that the summers here were more pleasant than most places in the city. It was a modest house, and he guessed that they were planning to hang onto it until they could save enough to move into a neighborhood in Bristol. Nonetheless, the community itself seemed nice and more family-oriented than other places in the city.

"Wait here just a sec."

There was a man waiting outside her door who looked like he had been standing there for hours. He looked like a working man, possibly a dockside worker or mechanic, with a scruffy button-up shirt with rolled up sleeves and jeans that had seen tons of abuse. His large, protruding belly indicated that he spent too much time at the bars and not working, either due to laziness or low working hours. The guy was definitely not from around here, and the expectant look on his face meant trouble.

Don decided not to wait. He exited the car with Leslie as she approached him with an utterly irritated demeanor.

"I thought I told you to _stay_ _away_," she said. "We don't want you coming around here."

The man spat on the ground. "I don't give a fuck what you think. I'm here to get what's mine. _You_ don't get to decide what Warner would have done with that money."

"You're a thief. Get the _fuck_ away from my house and never come back again. I'm filing a restraining order right now."

He reached into his pocket and grabbed a half-crumpled piece of paper. "No. I don't think so."

She took the paper from him and read it. Don took a look at the man and realized that he was somewhat familiar.

"But…but this…"

"That's right. Now, you better give me my money or I will have you restrained. Or would you rather I legally implicate that stupid kid you've got there?"

Leslie looked about ready to crumble.

"It's the law, bitch. Now gimme that money! You have until the end of the week, or I'm suing you, as well."

She put a hand over her mouth.

"I…"

He let her read it some more, basking in the moment of some kind of victory that Don was not aware of. The man chuckled and walked away, and upon crossing him, took a short pause. They looked at each other in the eye, but after a moment, the man got angry.

"The fuck are you looking at, faggot?"

Don watched as he marched back to his car and left, speeding off and running a stoplight. He wasn't sure how to process what had just happened, and stepped forward to console his aunt, putting his hands around her shoulders as she wept. It looked like everything wasn't going too smoothly after all.

"Your father never left a will," she said, sniffling. "He had at least $20,000 in assets from the house. We sold most of the things he had and planned to keep it just for you and Vincent."

"Who was that?"

"Your father's half-brother. I never knew about him, but as soon as your father passed, the vultures circled around. People came in and started taking things. We had to fight them off," she answered.

He thought about the man for a second. He remembered seeing him before, when he was young. They weren't on good terms. Leslie showed him the paper in her hands; a legal note from some lawyer indicating that the rights to the money left behind now belonged to Edgar Silva, half-brother of Warner Silva.

"I guess we couldn't fight all of them."

Don wasn't sure what to say, but he was certain that it wasn't going to be a pleasant return home. He was then in touch with his original reasons for leaving Gotham.

* * *

**Bridgeview Apartment Complex**

"Hey, man. Was wondering when I could swing by and, uh, check out your new stuff?" Kieran asked over the phone, exiting the door.

"Oh. Yeah, man, for sure. Just swing by whenever," Raul said. "But better be quick though. Fuck, this shit is too good. You gotta help me to not snort it all."

He laughed. "You can bet I'll be there man. Let's say, tonight?"

There was a pause. "Yeah, that sounds good. I might have some plans though. Hit me up."

He hung up and tucked the letter that he'd gotten earlier into his pocket.

Kieran zipped up his hoody as he headed for the main office, wearing mesh shorts and flippers on the bottom. He had received a letter on his door stating that he had missed a monthly payment to the complex and was trying to sort it now.

The place was actually pretty big, because it was primarily geared for students, being so close to the community college. The college itself was actually large for its size, a consequence of rising education costs as well as the demand for higher education. He reached for his cell phone and looked at it for a second. He wasn't sure if he should call them or not. They'd nag him about his day-to-day life, about how useless he was, or both. They'd ask questions, very likely about his grades. He turned off his phone, closing down the contact list, and decided not to call his parents. He could handle this himself.

In truth, he had gotten lazy and should have seen this coming. His grades were suffering and, inevitably, he was pulled from financial aid.

Now he had a month to come up with at least $800 to pay for the apartment, or get evicted. This actually meant that he had to pay $1600 by the time the next month came around. He wrote a check for a measly $100 to pay towards the deficit, but needed the rest of his money to get the ounce of coke from Raul.

As he came up to the main office to drop off the check, he noticed a vehicle parked outside the gates—a black Infiniti sedan. Was it…?

He went for the door and opened it, scanning the room for anyone, and noticed the girl coming from the hallway on the other side, speaking with a worker who was currently giving her a tour. She was dressed in a casual fashion, with a city-like racerback tank top and slim jeans, with sunglasses sitting on the top of her head. It made him somewhat insecure about his lazy appearance.

Kieran went to the side and dropped off his check as they came in. They were speaking, but indistinctly, and while he was opening the box, he could swear that she was looking over at him. Then, a gesture of goodbye and approaching footsteps. He had the box open halfway as she came behind him, and took an extra long time to drop off the mail as she passed. Kieran let go of the door and the springs snapped it back loudly, causing her to look at him startlingly.

"Sorry," he apologized sheepishly. But she was already out the door.

This was his chance. He waited a few seconds, and then went outside after her.

"Hey, wait a second," he called out.

She turned around, and when he got a clear look at her, he was almost stunned by how beautiful she was. He clearly remembered her from somewhere.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I know you," he said. "Don't I know you?"

"That's confusing," she replied. "Are you saying or asking?"

Kieran rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm an idiot. I know. But I recognize you from somewhere."

"That's creepy."

"I swear to God we went to high school together," he said. "Swear. To God."

"Well, I'm Catholic, so not only have you creeped me out, but you've offended me."

He noticed the cross on her necklace and had to decide if she was being serious or not.

"Yeah, I always wondered what those 't' necklaces meant," he replied. "I always thought it stood for teamwork."

To his surprise, she laughed. Not insincerely, either, like the ones that women often gave out of pity. This was a real, from-the-gut laugh. He moved in a little closer as she gathered herself and brushed away her hair.

"Seneca High School?" he asked.

"Yeah," she nodded. "Just got back into town after some time on the west coast."

He held out his hand. "I'm Kieran."

"Helena," she said, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Looking for an apartment, huh?"

"Yeah, checking around. Getting a little tired of staying with my aunt and uncle. Girl needs some space."

"Yep. I know all about that."

"Really?"

"Just history," he replied, unsure of what to say next. "Uh. So I saw you coming from class today. What was with the prayer mat?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's for yoga."

"Oh."

"It's not a prayer mat."

"Yeah, I mean, there's a mosque around here," Kieran said, pointing around. "Somewhere. I just figured, hey, why stereotype?"

Helena nodded. "You don't look like you've ever worked out a day in your life."

It was true. Kieran wasn't exactly a solid hunk of muscle. His bones lacked the density they used to have back when he was still in high school football. Now, he was as thin as the next drug addict in this neighborhood.

"Yeah, I'm on a new diet. It consists of champagne 24 hours a day," he remarked with a smirk, causing her to chuckle. "Unless you're not into the party life. In that case, I stuff my face with broccoli and kale."

"I'm not _that_ much of a health freak."

"You look like you're built to kick asses for a living," he looked her in the eyes, easing into comfort. "I'm a little intimidated that you'd whoop me for saying the wrong thing."

"I guess you're secretly into that."

"Well, no. But I suppose we do things and we don't know why."

"Why?"

He bit his lip. "Maybe some part of us wants to be thrown into the unexpected."

"Do you believe that?"

"I like to think I can still be surprised every now and then, yeah."

Helena shook her head. "Your penchant for surprises is going to hurt you one day."

"Who says it hasn't?"

She had no response to his rather personal comment, which he threw out to up the tension.

"The consequence of being surprised is becoming surprising," Kieran said.

Helena actually had a flicker in her eye, as though she had finally opened up. It was the right time to break it off and leave on a good note.

"Anyway. I've gotta get back. To do stuff," he said, taking out his phone. He gave it to her. "Why don't we get some coffee or something? I can show you what's around here, too. I'm a cool kid, so people kind of know me."

A smile. She punched in her number. "A cool kid?"

"Yeah. That way you don't have to rebuild your social status on the grassroots level, know what I mean?"

"Ah, I see. Looking out for me, is that it?" she asked playfully, passing the phone back to him. "Sales pitch. You're sharp."

Kieran was ready to head back. "It's what I do."

"I sure hope you didn't do the same to the last girls you talked to."

He winked. "I've got you in my clutches already."

Helena looked at him for another few moments, then smiled to herself as she turned around and went to her car. She unlocked the car and opened the door, but before she could step in, she faced him one more time.

"It's nice being back in town you know. I do remember you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're a drug dealer," she said.

He was taken aback. There was a brief moment before he spoke again.

"So, uh," he muttered, clearing his throat. "Why _did_ you come back?"

Helena shrugged.

"Maybe some part of me wants to be thrown into the unexpected."

* * *

**Aunt Leslie's House**

He rubbed his temples and glanced at the baby who stared at him curiously through his playpen.

It was close to dinner and Don had already looked up places for work. He ended up submitting an application to the Rite Aid near the school, and was already in the process of searching registration dates for classes. It was unfortunate since he was a little late and most of the classes were full, but he planned to head to the counseling office tomorrow for a drop-in appointment. There was no certainty that he'd get what he wanted. He wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to do, but these were the things that he _could_ do. It was all he can ask for.

His aunt watched as he sat on the couch and tirelessly searched, half-concerned that he wasn't letting himself take a rest and half-pleased that he was quick to take action.

"You've been at your computer for hours," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Dinner's almost ready. Take a break."

"Just a little bit."

Leslie went over to the playpen in the middle of the room and picked up her son, Matthew, taking him to the kitchen to grab a bottle of milk.

"Vincent's going to be home soon," she called to him from the kitchen.

Down the hallway, the door from the master bedroom opened.

"Honey, I'm going to have to head to the dealership tomorrow and have them take a look at the transmission," Calvin, her husband, said. He was a schoolteacher, and had just gotten back from work.

"Yeah, okay," she said.

He walked into the room and looked around. "So. Something wrong?"

It was obvious that he sensed that something was off, despite Don being here. It was even more obvious that Leslie didn't want to talk about Don's uncle dropping by. But Don also felt there was more about the money his father had left behind that she wasn't telling him. She had been curtailing some of her answers to his questions about it all evening. She didn't tell him exactly how they'd get it, or if they had opened an account for Vincent, or how long they had known about it. And perhaps one of the most telling details was that it seemed like this small feud seemed ongoing, like Edgar had been harassing them for weeks.

He didn't want to bother his aunt for now. The fact was that his uncle had taken his brother's inheritance. Don didn't find too much of a problem with that anyway. In his mind, inheritance wasn't different from charity. $20,000 wouldn't keep them afloat for long, and honestly, Don had no idea how to turn 20 into 100.

In his bones he knew he'd have to find a way to make it. There was no rest, no time for reflection, and no time to feel sorry. The problem was open like a gaping wound, and his gut was turned inside out from that burning sense of urgency.

"No," she answered quietly as he passed her in the kitchen. "Just…"

Leslie lowly muttered something to her husband that Don barely picked up, but he sensed that she was withholding the truth. He picked up some words mentioning about his arrival and how she had to revisit certain feelings revolving his father's death. It was a carefully executed gesture of misdirection, and it was her mistake to think that he wouldn't pick up on it.

His aunt always had a penchant for secrets, much like his mother. Some things didn't change. Her husband Calvin came around to the living room after giving her a kiss on the forehead.

"Hey, pal," he said.

Don shook his hand. "Uncle Calvin."

"Just got in today, huh? How was your flight?"

Fluff talk.

"It was alright."

"All the way from…?" Calvin asked, hand held out.

"Kandahar."

His uncle whistled. "Must've been long."

"By the time you land, you're a little disappointed it wasn't longer."

Being in the air was a temporary escape from responsibility.

"Were you planning on returning?"

Don remembered originally training with Floyd to get into contractor work.

"Don't think so. The Army never felt like home."

Nothing did anymore. The feeling was so far removed that he hardly remembered what it was like.

"Well, this is your home now. For as long as you like."

The front door clicked as it unlocked, and a young man entered through with his backpack hanging over one shoulder. The look on his face seemed morose and detached; the nonchalant way he walked weighed heavy with entitlement. Vincent Silva was hardly a clone of his older brother. Where Don had a stockier, powerful build, his brother was taller and leaner. Both possessed the athleticism of their parents, but it was clear that Vincent didn't spend his time at the gym.

"Hey, there you are," Aunt Leslie said, poking out of the kitchen. "How was your day?"

Vincent looked around the living room and noticed Calvin and Don. He glanced at Don briefly.

"It was alright."

He walked past the kitchen and straight to his room, a passive gesture that prompted stares between Leslie and Calvin.

"Dinner's going to be ready soon," Leslie said as he disappeared.

Door clicked shut.

"He's been…pretty quiet since the funeral," Calvin said. "You should talk to him. He won't speak to us."

Don contemplated for a second before getting up to go to his brother's room, hands in his pockets. His aunt gave him a hopeful smile as he approached the door, standing for a few moments considering whether or not he should knock. He decided not to.

Vincent was standing over his desk putting his things away, making zero effort to acknowledge his brother's presence. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. They'd been this way for the past few years.

"How're you holding up?"

He wasn't sure if that question was really for his brother.

"I'm good."

"Are you?"

Vincent nodded, brushing back his much longer hair.

"Have you been staying out of trouble?"

His brother shrugged. "For the most part."

"And the funeral…"

"We knew this was coming," he said. "There's no need to linger. Dad died just like he lived. Slowly and painfully."

There was no inclination for Don to defend their father. Vincent was right.

"I'm only wondering if that's how we'll turn out."

"It's your choice," Don asked.

His brother finally turned around and looked at him.

"And what are you going to do?"

"Set a good example. Obviously. I won't pressure you to make all the right choices. I don't know what they are, and I won't claim to know. I'm not like him," Don said. "But I promise that I'll get us off the ground. You deserve a better life."

His brother reached for his backpack and stashed it away on the other side of his bed. It was such a casual move that Don thought nothing of it.

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

* * *

**Raul's Apartment**

Should he text her? He wasn't sure just yet. Kieran was rusty with his romance. Hooking up with any girl wasn't a big problem, but this wasn't just any girl. He had to admit, he was experiencing some butterflies.

He put his phone away and knocked on the door. The apartment was new, as well as a testament to just how much Raul had been making in the past year. Kieran hadn't seen him in some time but heard good things, especially ever since the Black stuff started getting really popular around these parts. Usually the drug of choice past the harbor was the crystal meth from outside of town, but the cocaine that's been passing through has created an entire subculture. Kids treated it like expensive clothing.

The door swung open and Raul greeted him with open arms.

"Hey! What's up bro?"

Kieran shook his hand. "It's good! It's good."

"Come in, come in," the drug dealer said. "Welcome to my new home."

The living space was nice. There were still boxes stacked in the corner of the room that Raul hadn't gotten to yet, but the apartment looked like it could have been in Midtown. It was modern and likely aimed at young, up-and-coming professionals. There was a nearby software firm, too, so it explained why these new apartments were being built. All next to the rest of the city.

Iroquois County was so weird.

They talked about the place for a few minutes, discussing the price, perks, and utilities—usual stuff. If Kieran hadn't known how much of an idiot Raul was, he might have considered him an apt salesman. Raul, in his light accent, spoke with an inkling of delusional pride, the kind carried by most drug dealers who hadn't seen tens of thousands of dollars before. He always suspected that was how the guys higher up kept their thugs in line. Everyone had success barriers. Raul had only seen thousands of dollars at once and thought he was rich. Kieran had seen tens of thousands at one point before cops started getting hot on his tail. It made Raul's earnings pale in comparison.

He knew in his heart that somewhere, there was someone just like the two of them dealing with hundreds of thousands. And someone above that doing millions. There was always a bigger fish.

"…damn. This really is a nice kitchen," Kieran said. "Makes the one in my apartment look like the Flintstones, but a crack house version."

His friend laughed. "It's not bad. I got a year-long lease on this bitch. Trying to move into the city at some point."

"Me too."

"Trying to get a loft next year. Then maybe a penthouse."

"Me too."

"I won't be selling drugs forever, though," Raul told him. "I want to be a DJ. Trying to get a place in Midtown Village."

Kieran didn't respond. He didn't know what he wanted to be. It was a noticeable gap in their conversation.

They went back into the living room. Raul had lifted a backpack from his room and brought it to the coffee table, placing it down for Kieran to see.

"This is it. Check it out," Raul said.

Kieran unzipped the newly purchased bag and lifted the top open to reveal several small bags of pre-cut cocaine alongside the half-kilo that was Raul was supposed to sell over the next several months. It was bright white, as white as the December snow, and he fantasized about the days ahead of him.

"Let's get to work."

Raul unzipped one of the small bags and took out one of the compressed rocks. He gestured over to Kieran's side of the couch.

"Hand me that mirror under the sofa," his friend said.

Kieran nodded and reached for the small mirror underneath where he sat, passing it over to Raul after noticing how old it was.

"Had this forever. It's my good luck mirror."

Raul broke some of the powder and cut it with one of the cards he had retrieved from his wallet. As he was cutting the rock down into powder, Kieran couldn't help but feel like he was going to commit to selling. Before, he'd just sell to make pocket change and pay for video games, clothes, and phones. But after seeing this he knew he was going to be in it for the long haul, and in that moment, as his friend divided the coke into thin lines next to a lipstick marking, he vowed to himself that he was going to do anything to succeed.

His friend rolled up a hundred dollar bill and took the first snort.

"Ah, _shit_. Fuck. Man," Raul remarked, wiping his nose. "Fuck. Have a sample, sir. Please. You have to try this."

Kieran went next. He put the bill to his nose and the muscle memory kicked in. He hadn't had coke in a completely sober state in awhile, but his body didn't forget how to ingest it. It was just like old times. The powder traveled straight up his nasal canal and hit his brain like a hammer, shocking him into awareness unlike anything else he'd experienced. It was powerful, and had a stronger euphoria while tempering the jitteriness of the usual.

Clarity. As pure as white.

"Yeah," his friend nodded. "That's it. Now that shit speaks for itself. I don't have to even pitch or nothing. God, that feels so amazing."

"This is going to change everything."

Raul laughed. "Yeah man! It's like Facebook, but with drugs!"

"How much have you sold already?"

"Just re-upped last weekend, dude. This shit is so low key. My connect gets it like clockwork, and I hardly even see the guy," Raul said. "I tell you, man. I've made it into the big time. I could really use some extra hands to help push this shit."

There was no turning back now.

"So what do you say, man?" Raul said. "Let's talk business?"

Kieran looked his friend in the eyes, so ready to answer 'yes,' but before he could, there was a knock on the door.

"Can you get that, brother?"

He walked to the door while Raul put the coke back into the bag and the mirror under the couch. Kieran looked through the eyehole. A thin UPS man with a small package.

"Some delivery guy," he said.

Raul was in the kitchen. "Ah, okay."

He reached for the doorknob and as he turned it, regretted overlooking the mailing system downstairs on his way up, where packages were sent, received, and retrieved. If he had more time to think, he probably would have asked how Raul could forget such a detail because this was his apartment. Then he would have remembered that the apartment was new.

It was too late, though. When the three thugs hiding to the sides of the door heard the _click_ of the knob, they stomped it wide-open and knocked Kieran on his back. The trauma overtook his senses as they came into the room with ski masks fit tightly over their faces, shouting orders at Raul to shut his mouth and get on his knees.

"GET THE FUCK DOWN," one of them barked, pointing his shotgun at the poor kid. "Get over here. Sit."

Another one with a .38 snub pressed his foot down on Kieran's stomach. "You too, pretty boy."

Kieran was shocked, not only from the actual violence of their entry but also from the fact that they were doing this in a highly residential area. The brazenness of Gotham's criminals was all too apparent. No one was going to call the police. Certainly not them. And the walls were nearly soundproof since this was a higher-end apartment. It wouldn't matter. The low-end apartments were so riddled with poor folk that they wouldn't dare mess with drug business anyway.

He suspected that two of them were Italians, judging by the strength of their accents. They weren't from around here. Probably been watching Raul for days. The last one was a black guy, which somewhat confirmed his theory. The mob could hardly afford to be racist nowadays.

The smaller one in the middle stepped forward. He carried nothing, and didn't dress like them. Where the other two seemed like the local neighborhood brutes, this guy was dressed in an expensive leather jacket. "The coke. Where is it?"

His voice was deep and commanding. He was probably a lieutenant, but from which family?

"What coke—"

One of them pistol-whipped Raul before he could finish his weak excuse.

"Don't jerk me around, asshole. The more you waste my time, the more I'll be inclined to kill you right here," the man said.

As much as Kieran wished he'd been strapped with a weapon, he hardly thought it would be useful in a situation like this. How the hell would he take out three grown men, all of whom were hired muscle and bigger than he was?

Reluctantly, Raul reached for the bag that held his entire stash, placing it on the table once again. One of the thugs rifled through his things while the other one kept his shotgun pointed at them. They were unusually quiet. This wasn't the typical mob harassment.

The thug nodded to his lieutenant.

"Alright, we're taking this," the man said. "You tell your boss that his product ain't going to be at the top for long. That he'll be dead soon if he don't pull out of this game. This is our city. Not his."

Around the man's neck was his jewelry, which Kieran had been fixated on since he had been sitting down, particularly the golden cross he wore that looked so similar to another one he'd seen very recently.

"I'm going to tell you what will happen in the next few months," he continued. "We're going to take his side of Iroquois from him. In that meantime, you assholes better lay low. If you want a job with us when the smoke clears, you got it."

Just like a corporate job. A shift in upper-management meant pretty much zero changes for the employees involved. At least gangsters never had to 'let go' of anyone.

"But get in our way and I'll kill your whole family. No one will know, and no one will ever find you. Everyone you love will disappear without a trace."

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.

"Let's consider this business," he said, tossing it onto the table. "Split that between you and your partner. We'll be back in the future. Keep this between us, yeah? Don't tell your boss."

Kieran suddenly remembered where he'd seen that cross. It was on a certain girl he met earlier. Was it such a coincidence that they happened to have the exact same necklace? He was amused with the coincidence, and even began chuckling after remembering something.

"The fuck are you laughing about, wise guy?"

He looked up at the mobster.

"That 't' you're wearing across your neck. You guys must believe in teamwork."

They successfully raided the apartment, after all.

A moment passed as they processed the joke. Then the butt of a shotgun slammed against Kieran's face and he went black.

* * *

**_The woods, Canada_**

The bullet sailed right into the center of the target.

"There you go, kid. Goddamn," Floyd remarked. "Pretty good."

"I think that one sailed right into the last bullet hole."

They sat up. "If you're going to be cocky, do it when when you no longer miss."

Don put the rifle on his lap as his mentor began heating up some tea on the propane canister next to them, wide-eyed and smiling after hitting all of his targets for this session. He felt his willpower growing incrementally each day, this training providing a much-needed point of focus in his life as he figured out exactly what he was going to do when he got home.

"But you're due to miss eventually," Don said.

Floyd nodded.

"So…don't be cocky?" he asked.

Floyd nodded again. "A lesson I never learned until my best days were behind me."

Some time passed. The propane tank whirred next to them, taking up the sound space. Then, Don had to ask another question.

"What is your biggest regret?"

His mentor didn't answer for a moment.

"You don't have to answer that," he said, backpedaling.

Floyd Lawton pondered briefly, looking into the dense trees across the tundra. There were deer grazing in the distance, poking their heads out every-so-often to assess the area. It felt like the ultimate power to know that you could kill one of them from here. Don regarded his teacher with curiosity, speculating on whether Floyd was thinking of an excuse or an answer.

"I regret believing that my talent could save the ones I cared about."

But words were never enough. Don nodded and pretended to understand, bookmarking his mentor's wisdom in the back of his head for the opportune time to reflect upon it.

He had forgotten this lesson by the time his plane arrived at Greenglades.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed. Leave a review! I'd like to hear your thoughts on it so far.**


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